The Last of the Romans

by Derek Birks

  THE LAST OF THE ROMANS

  Derek Birks

  Copyright © Derek Birks 2019

  Derek Birks has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Sharpe Books.

  For all those fellow writers who gave me support and encouragement when I started out on this fantastic journey of creating historical fiction. You are far too numerous to name, but I remain very grateful to you all.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge the debt owed to my creative team for their constructive suggestions and astute observations. I am especially fortunate to have an excellent graphic designer, Katie Birks, without whom the maps would have remained as jumbled ideas in my head.

  Thanks are also due to Richard Foreman, of Sharpe Books, for helping me to dip my toe into an entirely different period of historical fiction.

  Finally, as always, I must thank Janet, not only for her constant support, but for dragging me away from the writing desk once in a while!

  Table of Contents

  The Players in The Last of the Romans

  GLOSSARY

  MAPS

  Part One: Death of a Legend

  Part Two: Friends and Enemies

  Part Three: Caracotinum

  Part Four: Ships and Harbours

  Historical Notes

  About the Author

  The Players in The Last of the Roman

  s

  The Aurelius Honorius family:

  Dux Ambrosius Aurelianus*, an elite bucellarii commander under Flavius Aetius

  Aurelius Honorius Magnus , commander of the Roman fort at Caracotinum

  Aurelius Honorius Petro , son of Magnus and half-brother of Ambrosius

  Aurelius Honorius Gallo , son of Magnus and half-brother of Ambrosius

  Honoria Florina , daughter of Magnus and half-sister of Ambrosius

  Honoria Lucidia Clutoriga, daughter of Magnus and sister of Ambrosius

  The Bucellarii:

  Flavius Marcellus (Marco) Constans , a Roman friend and deputy of Ambrosius

  Aurelius Varta , a Frank and also a long-time friend of Ambrosius

  Aurelius Marianus Onnophris (Onno) , an Egyptian engineer from Alexandria

  Aurelius Maurus Rocca , a soldier from North Africa

  Aurelius Xallas , a soldier from Baetica in southern Spain

  Aurelius Molinus Caralla, a cataphract (heavy cavalryman) from Britannia

  Flavius Silvius Germanus , a Burgundian soldier

  Flavius Romanus Cappa, a former thief from the back streets of Rome

  Flavius Rusticus Placido , a Vandal from North Africa

  Uldar, a young Hun archer

  The Freed Slaves:

  Inga, a Saxon whore living in Verona

  Calens , a Greek serving as a physician to the bucellarii

  Canis, Ambrosius’ personal servant and also the lover of Calens

  Others:

  Petronius Maximus*, a prominent Roman senator

  Heraclius*, head of the emperor’s household

  Flavius Corvinius Puglio , tribune of the Imperial guard [Schola Scutariorum Prima]

  Stavelus, commander of the Roman garrison in Verona

  Prosperus , a soldier of the Roman garrison at Caracotinum

  Clodoris , a Frank leader who raised Ambrosius from boyhood to manhood

  Childeric* , a young Frank chieftain

  Canaris , a young Frank

  Lepidus, Cratus, Anticus, Fistulus, Ravidus & Crevicus, Imperial guards

  Remigius, a sea-farer in Caracotinum

  NB. Those characters marked with * are actual historical figures.

  GLOSSAR

  Y

  apse: a semi-circular alcove seen in late Roman buildings and rooms such as triclinia

  auxilia: support units in the late Roman army

  bucellarii: a group of mounted soldiers personally loyal to an individual

  cataphract : heavily armoured horsemen

  caupona: a fairly basic inn or lodging house

  coloni: tenant farmers in the late Roman empire

  comes: a high-ranking official of the late Roman empire – either military or civilian

  dux: a high military office in the late Roman empire, below the rank of comes .

  foederati: other tribes who were bound by treaty to fight as allies of Rome

  insulae: town blocks of tenement housing

  liburnia: a common Roman ship with 2 banks of oars carrying 50-80 oarsmen

  magister utriusque militiae : a supreme military commander of the late Roman Empire

  navis lusoria: a small, shallow, military ship for use on rivers with oars and a sail

  scutarii: members of the Schola Scutariorum Prima unit of the imperial guard

  solidi: gold coins of the late Roman Empire

  spatha: a long, straight, double-edged sword used widely in this period

  tribune : a Roman officer

  triclinium : a formal dining room

  MAP

  S

  Part One: Death of a Legen

  d

  1

  September 454, in a caupona at Ardelica on the shores of Lake Benacus in northern Italia

  Brushing aside a handful of unruly red hair, Ambrosius squinted across at the other occupant of the bed. He always slept alone – yet he had allowed the girl to stay. Dear Christ, he was surely growing softer by the day! Sleeping alone made a lot of sense; it was safer. His work was bloody and covert – his mandate delivered where no-one ever saw or heard. If ever a man was born to dwell on his own in the shadows, it was Ambrosius Honorius Aurelianus.

  For the past three years Rome’s supreme military commander, the Magister Utriusque Militiae, Flavius Aetius, had sent Ambrosius wherever trouble erupted across the failing empire. Wherever an army was too many, or an assassin too few, he and his band of disparate bucellarii were despatched - and death went along for the ride. They slew every zealot, every ambitious politician, every fool and murderer, across the empire from the west coast of Galicia to eastern Thrace. In truth, Ambrosius and his comrades did little else but send men to an early grave.

  Since he was recruited in Gallia, he reflected that his own fortunes had become inextricably harnessed to those of Magister Aetius. He could not resist a grim smile of admiration for the man who, against all the odds, still held the fate of the western empire in his firm grip. Without him, Ambrosius would still be a renegade bandit living among the Franks in north-western Gallia. Instead he was the commander of an elite band of mounted warmongers and carried the rank of dux. He was both feared and despised by his enemies - and very likely by some of the imperial guard as well.

  Thus, Ambrosius slept alone; yet, there she lay… half-covered by the coarse blanket. So, yes, he was getting soft. But then, after the sudden demise of the Hun king, Attila, everything had changed. Peace had come to Rome – albeit a fragile peace brokered by exhausted combatants, but a peace all the same. And, in the wake of peace, it seemed that the wolf must be caged. So, Ambrosius found himself marooned in this shabby caupona on the shores of a lake far from the imperial court. While he preferred to remain at the inn, most of his bucellarii made frequent visits to nearby Verona where they were no doubt even now exhausting whatever coin they had left.

  “Even you need to stop killing eventually,” Aetius had told him. “Believe me, you need a rest from it; I know that better than anyone: killing eats into your soul...”

  And somewhere, deep in his heart, Ambrosius feared his mentor might be right: there had to be an end to the carnage… sometime. Yet, removing the enemies of Rome and, where necessary, the enemies of Aetius, was wh
at earned him his high status. If there did come a time when the dark skills he possessed were no longer required, what would he do? Fighting was all he knew… His rapid promotion had won him many enemies and some of those - both in Rome and Ravenna - would be only too pleased to see him taken down.

  Until now, he ate the best food, drank the best wine – often too much of it – and had the most spacious quarters. Now all that was in the wind as he languished at this decrepit, lakeside caupona, awaiting orders; but for a long time now, no orders had come.

  He glanced at the girl once again, his eyes following the smooth line of her exposed leg. She was pretty enough, but so were they all when first they were brought to the brothels of Verona where he had acquired her. It was not the first time he had bought a whore – indeed his good friend, Marcellus, had given him another good telling off for doing so.

  “It’s become a habit, Dux,” he complained, “and a pointless one! You find some good-looking, fair haired whore, buy her – usually at a grossly inflated price – and then you don’t even keep her! You give her money and set her free! There’s surely something seriously amiss with you!”

  Marcellus, of course, was right: there was something wrong with him – badly wrong. Being abandoned in the north during these wretched months of peace was a slow-burning agony. He did not know why he freed the whores, but if it staved off the boredom of inactivity, he was going to continue doing it, at least until his ill-gotten income ran out… Sooner or later, if Aetius did not summon him, he would probably squander all his wealth on freeing the girls. What then? He must pray that mischief did not slumber too much longer in the empire of the west, for he could root out mischief better than anyone.

  His eyes returned to the girl about whom he knew nothing, except what he could see - as Marcellus described: fair hair, light skin and blue eyes. Though she had barely said a word, he reckoned her accent hinted at an origin far north of the Rhine – Alemanni, perhaps, or even Saxon. Since her youthful beauty was still intact, she had clearly not been in the trade for very long - or so he hoped… but then he always hoped that. Though she was not the first whore he had bought, she was the only one he had suffered to remain for more than a few hours. Something about her must have drawn him in, though he could not say what.

  Lying on her side, turned away from him, she was very close, yet not touching. Was that a barrier of her making, or his? He really should have asked her name, but very soon she would be gone – like all the others - so what was the point?

  Sensing a subtle change in the light, he began to contemplate another dreary day. With a sudden shiver, the girl woke up and her anxious eyes scoured the chamber for a way out, before coming to rest upon him.

  “Have you forgotten where you are?” he asked.

  She stared at him, transfixed like a startled doe; then she gave another shiver, before lowering her eyes in submission. “No, master,” she replied. “I was just… cold.”

  Behind her eyes, he saw wariness – but also perhaps a trace of contempt?

  “You’re safe here,” he told her.

  “Safe?” Nothing about her curt response was submissive.

  “Safer than Verona, anyway,” he murmured, intrigued by the little spark of defiance.

  “You’ve not touched me all night, master,” she said, “so, what is it you want with me?”

  In her tone, he heard a tremor of fear– and yes, that lingering resentment too.

  “Are you offended that you’ve been left untouched?” he enquired.

  Again she lowered her eyes.

  “How long have you been a whore?” he asked.

  “I’ve been a slave for a year… master,” she replied, emphasising the distinction.

  Reaching for a small purse, he tossed it onto the bed in front of her. “So, now you’re a freed slave,” he told her, “and there’s coin enough there to get you started.”

  With only the slightest hesitation, she pulled open the pouch of coins and peered inside. If he expected any gratitude in her expression, he found none.

  “Get me started, master?” she asked.

  “You don’t need to call me master now,” he said.

  “What should I call you then?”

  “What everyone else calls me: Dux.”

  “So, I’m free… Dux, just like that. And I can walk away with all this coin?”

  He nodded. “You could give up whoring though.”

  “And what if I don’t?” she said.

  He gave a shrug. “You’re free; I can’t force you…”

  “Hah!” With that brief retort, her disbelief slapped him in the face.

  “I mean… I… won’t force you,” he said.

  Why did she linger, he wondered? She should have left by now - raced out of the chamber, clutching her handful of coins, on a tide of elation.

  “Where should I go then?” she asked, giving another shiver.

  “Find my servant, Canis, on your way out; he’ll tell you…”

  Sitting perfectly still, he felt the draught of cool air against his cheek and sniffed the air; then he made a swift deduction that he should have made a good deal sooner.

  “Christ's tomb!” he muttered.

  By God, he was getting careless! The first time she shivered, he should have noticed that the door was ajar – not to mention the absolute, deathly silence outside! The caupona was never that quiet - even around dawn! That’s what came of months of doing piss-all: you ended up with your head jammed firmly up your own festering arse!

  Tossing the girl onto the floor, he had his knife out by the time the first man hurled himself up from the floor beside the bed. Slashing the eight-inch blade across the assassin’s chest, Ambrosius paused - but only for an instant. Others were hurtling in: three more - no four – and all armed with knives.

  As the nearest one came at him, he managed – just - to turn aside the thrust with his knife. Aiming a swift knee to the groin, he seized a flailing arm to swing the man around to block the attack of the next. Carving his blade across the throat of the third attacker in a spray of blood, he then despatched the man he still held in an iron grip. By the time Ambrosius took a breath, three victims lay unmoving on the timber floor.

  With the element of surprise gone and three of their number dead, the two remaining assailants hesitated. They were right to think twice because, however skilled in their craft they might be, they would know now that the dread reputation of Ambrosius Aurelianus was well-deserved. Fleeing at once might have saved them, but instead they drew out their spathas – their second mistake. Moving to block their way to the door, Ambrosius snatched up his own sword belt and cast aside the leather-bound scabbard.

  “Who’s first then?” he enquired.

  His weary tone should have given them a final warning, but of course they were contracted to kill - or be killed. After exchanging a swift glance, the pair came at him together. Why wouldn’t they? But it would make no difference; he was too quick and too strong. The knife, hurled from his left hand, flew at the further of the two whose flapping arm could not prevent it from lodging in his windpipe. While the dying man choked on blood, his wretched accomplice backed away and reached down to pluck the cowering girl up from the floor. Hauling her up in front of him, he cast about with desperate eyes for another way out.

  “I’ll kill her!” he cried.

  “So? She’s not my wife, you fool!” declared Ambrosius. “She’s just a slave...”

  For a moment, doubt clouded the man’s expression but, as the girl tried to pull away, he slid the edge of his spatha across her bare shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood. She stiffened but did not cry out.

  Impressed by her mettle, Ambrosius took a step closer, meeting her eyes for the very first time.

  “I mean it!” snarled the assassin.

  “Oh, so do I,” replied Ambrosius, still looking only at the girl. “I don’t even know her name.”

  With a slow shake of the head, she glared at him – bitter, sapphire eyes fl
ashing bright with anger.

  “She means nothing to me,” continued Ambrosius, raising the point of his spatha until its tip rested against her thinly covered breast. “And this fine blade will run the pair of you through well enough.”

  Still holding her gaze, he drew the blade back a few inches and she gasped, eyes pleading with him now, as anger turned to alarm. Without warning, he kicked her hard on the outside of the left ankle and, as she dropped to the floor with a yelp, he thrust his blade into his opponent’s chest – not far, but just enough. The man gulped a short breath, shuddering on the point of the spatha, as a trickle of blood dribbled down onto his belly and his weapon fell from trembling fingers.

  “Who?” demanded Ambrosius, pressing the blade in an inch further. “For a swift death – which you don’t deserve – tell me who sent you.”

  After a brief pause, the ashen-faced assassin whimpered only a single, grim word: “Heraclius…”

  Ambrosius gave a weary sigh. “Of course,” he said. “Who else but the sodding eunuch could have planned such a thing out here… so far from the imperial court, eh?”

  Without pause, he drove the sword in hard, before swiftly wrenching it free again to allow the body to fall.

  As he bent down to examine the stunned girl, the chamber door crashed back against the wall. Swivelling around to face the new threat, he found only Marcellus on the threshold, sword in hand.

  His friend surveyed the carnage that littered the room with a wry smile. “I suppose you’re alright then, Dux,” he said.

  “Morning Marco,” said Ambrosius. “These fellows were a gift from Heraclius - or so I’m told…”

  But Marcellus looked grave. “On their way to you, Dux, they were swift and… thorough. They spared no-one who got in their way: the owner, his wife, children, even a few of the slaves…”

  “No witnesses,” said Ambrosius, with a sigh. “What about Canis?”

  “Sleeping in the stables… to calm the horses, he told me…”